


Precious Moments

by samwysesr



Category: MCU, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Twincest, consanguinity, maxicest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwysesr/pseuds/samwysesr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Per request, a collection of stories based on the prompts used in my VA Drabble Collection; each story will be short [the goal is under 500 words, though knowing me, some will end up longer].</p>
<p>Consider this an amuse-bouche to my primary Maximoff drabble collection [which is strictly for newer prompts and ideas].</p>
<p>Hope you enjoy them!</p>
<p>[Rated Mature for content of future drabbles, just to be safe.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Final Goodbye

 

 

 

**The Final Goodbye**  

**_Prompt – Beginning_ **

**_Word Count: 488_ **

 

* * *

 

For more than three years, there was something we did not talk about, though it afflicted us both— hanging like a razor sharp pendulum over our heads; there was no point in discussing it, you see, since there was nothing we could do to rectify the problem.

Every year when _that day_ rolled around, we set out hand in hand, walking four miles to the beautiful old Russian Orthodox church where we’d once spent countless hours with our parents. We never discussed where we were hr, or mentioned the task we were going to fulfill—to do so would unleash the torrent of misery that ate away at our souls. Quiet as  mice, we would slip into the Narthex, trying to remain completely inconspicuous as we moved to the large candle stand that sat on the far right of the room; together we would light two candles, silently sending up prayers for our departed parent’s souls.

It seemed such a pitifully inadequate gesture, but it was all we could do; there were no graves for us to visit—we didn’t even know what had happened to their bodies once the rescue crews dug them out. It tormented us—the not knowing. Our parents had died without a proper burial—there had been no panikhída to send them off to Heaven’s gates; their souls had received no prayers from the bishop or ceremonial mourning dinner attended by those that knew them. Could they rest in peace without receiving those final blessings, or were they stuck in limbo, unable to move on to the Paradise they deserved?

Those were the agonizing questions that vexed us; we had failed them in the worst way possible by not properly seeing to their earthly remains.

Listening to Wanda cry out softly in her sleep, I realized there was yet another unspoken question to add to our list—but the answer to this new question was easily obtained. It was time for us to face the hard, bitter truth—somehow… we had to find the strength to focus on our future. It was time for us to accept the inevitable; our lives were just beginning—we had to let go of the past and start _living_ for _ourselves._

We couldn’t continue the way things were—it wasn’t good for either of us. We couldn’t allow ourselves to be plagued forever by our failure to give our parents the memorial they deserved;  we would always love Mama and Papa… always miss them—but they were gone, and nothing we could do would ever bring them back. We could not begin to _heal_ until we let go—our worries would just continue to fester inside us, poisoning our lives forever.

No matter how hard it was, we had to lay the ghosts that haunted us to rest; we had to say our final goodbyes to Mama and Papa—it was time for us to move on.


	2. That Damned Dress

** That Damned Dress **

**_Prompt—Accusation_ **

**_Word Count: 190_ **

 

* * *

 

Her anger reached me before her words did—it burned like scalding water as it lapped against my skin; my mind automatically extended, reaching out to hers, but she erected a wall between us—one with bricks constructed of betrayal and anguish, the mortar holding them in place laced with unspoken accusation.

I tried again, drilling my thoughts into her mind. _“What’s wrong, Pietra? What did I do?”_

The question went unanswered—she turned and stormed off, trailing absolute _fury_ in her wake. I shoved the dress I was holding into the woman’s hands, hurrying after my twin before she could escape; my mind was racing—reviewing everything I’d done. What was wrong with giving people things they needed, or silly little inconsequential things that might brighten their dismal days?

Her emotions surged,  hitting me suddenly—the wave of jealousy rolling off my sister was so intense that it stole my breath. I cursed myself—instantly realizing my foolish, idiotic mistake.

Had I known that my Wanda would be so upset about my handing some stupid stranger a dress, I most assuredly would have just _thrown the damned thing away_.


	3. Missing Him

** Missing Him **

_**Prompt—Restless** _

_**Word Count: 187** _

* * *

 

If someone were to ask me to name the worst thing about being so close to Pietro, I think, perhaps, I would have to say the moments when he is not _here_. Being so completely connected to my brother, the ache I feel in his absence is unbearable—whenever he is not with me, the lack of his presence is like a lead weight, pressing against my chest.

Even something as simple as a quick trip to the market seems to take a lifetime—each minute lasts an hour, leaving me restless and anxious, impatient for his return. As the clock ticks, the feelings grow stronger; I can think of nothing but the fact he is not there—it is like a thorn, burrowing deeper and deeper into my brain. Then just at that moment when I think I cannot last another second, he walks through the door and I am no longer drowning in the despicable solitude that has tormented me. His arms encircle me, pulling me close—finally, I can breathe freely again.

Pietro is _home_ …and he is my _air._

 

 

  



	4. Winter's Kiss

** Winter’s Kiss **

**_Prompt—Snowflake_ **

**_Word Count: 302_ **

 

* * *

 

“Pietro… I am warning you—don’t!” I glared at him—every muscle in my body tense, ready to take flight.

“What? You can dish it out but not take it? That hardly seems fair, _little_ sister.” He grinned at me, inching closer—I feigned left, but he anticipated how my mind worked, immediately shifting to block the escape path to my right.

“You started it!” I shouted, slowly walking backwards; if I could get behind the willow tree, he wouldn’t be able to—

He lunged forward, grabbing me around the waist—tumbling us both over onto the cold, snowy ground. “Gotcha! Now apologize—”

“I won’t—you deserved it!”

“There is a massively huge difference in my laughing over you slipping and falling down and you hitting me in the face with a snowball, Pietra.”

Despite myself, I giggled—he looked so adorable that I just couldn’t help it; his cheeks were all red from the cold and there were snowflakes glistening in his dark curls. “Perhaps you are right… would you like me to kiss it better?”

He pretended to think about it for a moment. “I  _might_ be inclined to forgive you… if the kiss convinces me you really are sorry.”

Stretching my neck up, I brushed my lips against his—a soft, fleeting feathery kiss at first, just to tease him; then my mouth claimed his in a _proper_   kiss—slow and thorough, the kind intended to warm his cold lips, kindling a fire deep inside his body.

It took a while to convince him of my sincerity, but I didn’t mind at all—despite the snow that soaked thorough my clothes and the frigid winter air, the movement of his mouth and the press of his strong body against mine  were more than enough to keep me warm.


	5. Abodement

Abodement

Prompt—Haze

Word Count: 256

 

* * *

 

It hits unexpectedly—without the slightest hint of warning; there are no discernible triggers… no decipherable signs. One minute her thoughts are clear and strong, resonating through him like a second heartbeat, the comforting familiarity of her mind caressing his giving him security and peace; in the blink of an eye, everything changes—as though a cloud of confusion has descended on her brain. Disorientation… befuddlement... it overwhelms her—erasing all logic and reason, replacing it with a complete loss of sense… of time… of place.

She drifts, her mind weakening—it fills him with despair, sending him racing to her side. He lures her back from the brink of insanity with soft kisses and gentle words—reminding her who she is… where she belongs.

_At his side. Forever._

His mind touches hers, filling the empty holes with a lifetime of shared memories, his thoughts full of love and devotion—laced with desperation that is impossible to hide. _“My little love—don’t leave me! Come back to me Pietra—I cannot live without your love!”_

So far, it has always worked—but Pietro Maximoff’s greatest fear is the lingering possibility that one day… it won’t. Though he tries to ignore it, the thought that someday his twin’s mind will slip so far into the murky haze of madness that she will be out of his reach _forever_ lingers in his subconscious, eating away at his soul like acid.

When… _if_ … that day ever comes… he will lay down and die, right there by her side.


	6. PIETRO'S OPUS

Pietro’s Opus

Prompt—Flame

Word Count: 212

 

* * *

 

 

In his opinion, he didn’t have his sisters way with pretty words—she could weave a sentence so lovely that it would bring tears to his eyes; the simplest phrase was poetry on her lips—enhanced even more by the heart clenching beauty of her smile.

It vexed him terrible that he didn’t share that gift; he tried—and failed—a hundred times to compose his feelings into odes about the color of her eyes. He wasted sheet after sheet of paper attempting to describe the waves in her hair, and the graceful curve of her breasts.

An entire day was spent trying to capture the way the flickering flames of the fire glistened off the sheen of sweat that decorated her skin, and how the sheer beauty of it increased the pleasure he felt with each rock of her hips against his…but he wasn’t a wordsmith—no matter how hard he tried… he always failed.

Though he couldn’t find the words to _tell_ her how he felt, he could _show_   her the depth of his emotions; with the brush of his lips against the warm smoothness of her skin and the look of complete adoration in his eyes, he used his body to compose a physical masterpiece, dedicated to their love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up... I'm almost done with NANOWRIMO—as soon as I finish that, I'll be updating Transcendence. :o)


	7. A LABOR OF LOVE

A Labor of Love

Prompt—Formal

Word Count: 534

 

* * *

 

In 1631, the emperor  Shah Jahan began construction on a mausoleum for his deceased wife Mumtaz; comprised of white marble and semi-precious stones, it took twenty _thousand_   artisans and a thousand elephants to complete. To this day, the Taj Mahal still stands on the banks of the Yamuna river—an epic token of love that has withstood the test of time.

Pietro Maximoff was not an emperor; he didn’t have an army of workers—and there wasn’t an elephant in sight. What he _did_  have was a burning desire to make every single one of his beloved Wanda’s dreams come true—even when those dreams seemed impossible, and out of reach forever.

He scoured every inch of the wooded land that surrounded the compound, searching for a particular type of tree; when he found what he was searching for, he began clearing the immediate vicinity using nothing more than his own two hands (well… actually… more like his _body_ ). By the time he was satisfied, he was sore and achy—bruised from head to toe from the high impact collision he’d used to fell the trees; regardless, he didn’t allow the miniscule injuries to impede his progress—using the same technique, he shoved the fallen trees to the side, forming a makeshift wall around the area he’d claimed.

He tilled the soil, covering it with damp leaves—spending days waiting impatiently for them to decompose into mulch, enriching the soil with the nutrients it would need. Searching his memory, he tracked down just the right flowers, planting them in the beds he’d made with the precision of a surgeon—then he dug a shallow well, building up the foundation with large, smooth river stones that he’d collected on a trip to Clint Barton’s farm.

His very last act was to carve a lopsided heart in the bark of the willow tree near it’s base—adding his initials and his sister’s, with a date six years in the past.

It took  more than twenty years for Shah Jahan’s monument of love to be completed; Pietro Maximoff completed the task in ten months and fourteen days, (though he still insists he would have been done _much_   _sooner_   if Mother Nature hadn’t forced him to _wait_ ).

His Wanda never dreamed of a grandiose wedding—she didn’t want a stuffy formal event, with a fairy tale ball gown and a tiara on her head. She’d dreamed getting married in a plain, unadorned dress, with flowers in her hair—of pledging their love in the peaceful serenity of their garden, beneath the bows of the giant old willow tree that bore their initials and the date they’d first made love.

Their beautiful garden in Novi Grad was long gone—replaced by the dust and rubble that lined the crater where the city once stood; he could never give it back to her—the best he could do was to recreate an exact replica of what they’d lost. It was the place where they would one day renew the vows they’d made at sixteen, only this time, they would be made before an ordained minister—one who would _legally_ pronounce them man and wife,  joining them together before God…  _forever_. 


	8. Lessons Learned

Lessons Learned

Prompt—Companion

Word Count: 446

 

* * *

 

A common misconception amongst the general public revolves around the behavior and personalities of children; most people view them as helpless, innocent angels, who should be protected at all costs—when the truth of the matter is that _some_   children are evil, wicked little creatures. Without blinking an eye they are thoughtlessly cruel—teasing and tormenting their peers without the slightest provocation; these little monsters have no concern for other people’s feelings—they actually gain pleasure by causing pain.

The worst of these tyrants delights in singling out a child who seems a little _different_ —victimizing an unsuspecting classmate with teasing taunts over inconsequential things like the shabbiness of the clothes they wear or an unfortunate lisp or stutter. The only thing more horrifying than the mean spirited torment a bully dreams up on his own is how rapidly their cruel behavior spreads to their companions. Within hours—if not minutes—of a bully demeaning a child with an ugly hurtful nickname or rudely worded quip, everyone in the class picks up on their actions like lemmings, one by one ostracizing the poor unfortunate victim.

Quiet, studious Wanda Maximoff was a prime target for such cruelty; she didn’t go out of her way to make friends, she preferred to spend recess in the company of her brother, or with her nose buried in whatever book she was reading. It made her stand out—which is never a good thing when a child like Augustine Filipek is around. She was minding her own business, sitting on a bench beneath the trees at the edge of the playground when he spotted her; immediately, his lips curled up in a cold, calculating smile—she was out of sight of the teacher that was monitoring the playground.

Sauntering over, he snatched the book from her hands, holding it above his head, out of her reach; as his friends formed a circle around them, he began tearing out the pages, letting them flutter to the ground at her feet. Furious, Wanda jumped up and kicked him in the shin; he reacted by slapping her across the face so hard she fell over—calling her a _freak_.

It was a mistake, of course—though he didn’t realize it until he was tackled from behind; his so called friends scattered at the sight of Pietro Maximoff’s protective fury—watching from a safe distance as Augustine was beaten within an inch of his life.

It took a fractured jaw, a broken nose and three missing teeth for Augustine Filipek to learn how dangerous it was to be a bully; from that day on, the boy never so much as _glanced_   in Wanda’s direction again.


	9. Sweet Seduction

Sweet Seduction

Prompt—move

Word Count: 239

 

* * *

 

I know he is there… I can feel his eyes on my body; his gaze is like a physical caress as I slowly move through the steps. Hidden beneath the drooping branches of the willow tree, he sits and he watches me—with a look of complete entrancement on his face.

I do not mind the unexpected audience—Pietro is the sole reason I am so determined to master _this_  particular dance; with the teasing wiggle of my hips I will eventually seduce him, crumbling his stoic resolve to smithereens. The undulations of my body will bring to mind _other_ things, igniting the passion that always hovers between us—dissolving his determination to _wait_.

From the corner of my eye, I see him stand—he is unable to resist the sultry movements I am making; I turn my back, pretending not to notice him—shaking my rear as he slowly approaches. His hands claim my hips—his body presses against me, swaying in time with mine.

In the waning sunlight, we fan the flames of our desire, our dancing bodies simulating the act we so desperately long for, but cannot yet partake in. The tension between us builds with each subtle caress and each tantalize brush of our lips; when our control shatters, and we tumble to the ground, the silvery moon bears witness to our hushed cries of pleasure as we move against each other, searching for release.


	10. Ephemeris

** Ephemeris **

Prompt—Silver

Word Count: 576

* * *

 

Staring into the mirror, I scowled at my reflection, jerking the hairbrush I held roughly through my hair. For the first time in years, I was displeased with my reflection—it betrayed a truth I desperately wanted to _ignore._

“I think it looks quite becoming, Wanda—”

“It doesn’t—it is horrid. I look like a hideous old hag,” I snapped, slamming the brush down on the dresser.

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“I’m not—I _hate_   it.”

Pietro sighed, pushing himself up from our bed—moving up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. “You are being overly melodramatic, sweet sister.”

“It’s not _fair—_ I don’t _feel_  old at all,” I complained, leaning back into the solid, familiar comfort of his body.

His eyes met mine in the mirror—his lips curving up in a smile as he rested his chin atop my head. “You are looking at this from the entirely wrong perspective, Wanda. For the first time in years… we are starting to match again—this is something to be happy about, yes?”

I huffed, scowling a the pale strands that had sprouted up amongst my dark hair—they stood out like beacons in the night, immediately attracting the eye. “Your hair is silvery blonde, Pietro—practically platinum. That is an _entirely_   different thing than _gray._ ”

“It is a sign your body is mature…” he murmured, moving my hair away from my neck so his lips could travel along my skin. “Lusciously ripe… just the way I like it. You are like a fine wine, my love… growing more exquisite with every year that passes.”

Almost against my will, my head tilted, giving him room to explore; closing my eyes, I sighed contentedly as his hands dropped down, wandering along my curves.

“You are only as old as you feel, you know…” his hands cupped my breasts, weighing their fullness in his palms before gently squeezing them. “I would say you feel around eighteen… maybe nineteen at the most.”

I chuckled, turning to slide my arms around his neck, pressing myself against him. “You realize that would make me younger than the children…”

He nuzzled my neck, teeth grazing my ear. “So? Trust me, sweet sister… you don’t look nearly old enough or tired enough to have raised five children.”

“Mhmm… three of them still need a little raising,” I pointed out, brushing my lips against his. “And we’re only forty four… we could still fulfill our dream of having an even half dozen.”

“This is true… I think perhaps we should get to work on that now, yes?” He growled, scooping me up—immediately tossing me on the bed.

I giggled as he pounced on me—my sound of amusement turned into a long, hushed moan as he pressed the full length of his long, lean body against mine. As our bodies moved together, all thoughts of those pesky gray hairs completely vanished from my mind—after all, I of all people know that in the grand scheme of things, age is just a made up number. The creation of man to measure the span of one’s existence is, in truth, no more relevant than the ridiculous concept of time itself. The only true, unadulterated reality is the moment one is in.

And in that moment? I was making love with my handsome husband—something that was infinitely more potent than any mythical fountain of youth, keeping us both forever young.


	11. Simza's Brew

** Simza’s Brew **

_Prompt—Prepared_

_Word Count: 725_

* * *

 

The darkness pressed against me as I crept through the shadows—willing myself to be invisible as I wandered the poorly lit streets. When I snuck out of the basement window, it was well past eleven o’clock—it had taken over an hour of walking to near my destination.  The wee hours of the morning were hardly the safest time for a fifteen year old girl to be out on her own in Novi Grad, but I had no choice—with our birthday in three days, I was running out of time.

Skirting the dim pool of light beneath a broken streetlamp, I stuck close to the shadows, listening intently for any sign of life around me.  I’d taken care with the way I was dressed, hiding the curves I’d developed beneath a heavy, bulky sweat suit and I'd piled my hair up underneath a cap that belonged to Pietro, but still… I was nervous. Hopefully anyone who saw me would think I was a short, stocky boy—I clutched on to that thought, praying that it would prove true and keep me safe.

Another two blocks down, I  veered off the sidewalk, hurrying across a deserted parking lot to enter the dark mouth of the alley opening on the far side; another half block and I was there—scaling the rusty, broken fire escape that should have been condemned years before. Holding my breath, I made my way up to the only illuminated window in the building—trying not to look down at the ground four stories below. I knocked softly, knowing the woman inside would be cross—the blind jerked up, revealing a wrinkled, scowling face; Simza opened the window, reaching out to steady me as I climbed inside.

“Late!”

“I know, I’m sorry Bibi Simza… he took forever to fall asleep—and it is a very long walk.”

Making a tsking noise, she moved further into the room—over to the long, narrow table that dominated the center of the floor. “Tovar drive you home when you go. Almost ready.”

“You are positive it works? It will make things… safe?” My cheeks flushed, clearly displaying my  embarrassment for her to see.

She chuckled, nodding as she reached up, snagging a bundle of dried herbs from the low hanging rack above her—I watched, fascinated as she broke off two stems, her fingers nimbly crumbling the leaves up in the large glazed clay bowl that sat in front of her. “One cup special tea. Every day. When you ready for baby… no more tea.”

Nodding, I leaned back against the wall, trying not to fidget as she replaced the bundle of herbs, grabbing another and repeating the gesture. “How long until it takes effect?”

She grunted, grabbing a large pestle—grinding the contents of the bowl into a fine, dark powder. “Sunrise to sunrise… one full day—all you need to be certain.”

Her words eased back the prickling anxiety that had dominated my thoughts and gnawed at my insides. One day… I still had three… plenty of time to prevent accidents.

Pietro might be prepared to wait, hoping that in time we could make the Professor understand, but I wasn’t nearly as patient as he was; we had no way of knowing how long that would take, or if he would ever agree to help us. Even if the old man said yes, we would have to schedule and appointment, then even more time would be wasted waiting  to get into the clinic and for whatever they prescribed me to take effect.

I’d had more than enough waiting to last me a lifetime—three whole years’ worth. It was far better for me to take things into my own hands and do what needed to be done, making my own preparations… after all, sometimes, the old ways… the natural ways… they are the very best.

In three days’ time, we would be sixteen—that magical number that meant there were no more restrictions… no more torturous, teasing games, or ignoring our body’s needs. No more excuses… no more pulling away—no more worrying about what was right or what was wrong.

In three days’ time, thanks to Simza’s concoction, I would give my brother the most priceless thing I owned for our birthday.

I could only hope and pray he would accept it.


	12. Discernment

Discernment

_Prompt—Knowledge_

_Word Count: 401_

* * *

 

Sometimes, it takes every ounce of control that I possess _not_   to lash out at my teammates. I know that they are not intentionally being obtuse or trying to upset me—but the fact of the matter is that after every single training session I have, I’m left feeling cranky and stressed.

I do not mean to sound ungrateful or persnickety—honestly, I do realize how lucky Pietro and I are to be trained by two of the very best… and for the most part, Steve and Natasha have been very patient teachers. They never seem to grow exasperated or cross when we get things wrong, and they are always willing to demonstrate things over and over again—but be that as it may, at times… well… they frustrate me to no end.

For some ridiculous, obscure reason, they seem to think that I should instantly be able to reel off a list of my abilities—telling them exactly how I can harness the power that dwells deep inside me, and how each facet can best be used in battle, both individually as well as with the team. They don’t comprehend that it is not a precise thing… there is a definite learning curve, and it is one I have not mastered. I can’t obtain the knowledge and information I need from text books or diagrams or from stupid calculations—I simply _don’t know_  the extent of what I can do… how can I when the power within me seems to grow stronger every day?

List’s experimentation on us was like throwing a pebble in a pond—you can’t predict the amount of ripples it will make, or how many times it will skim across the surface before sinking down in  the watery depths. Pietro and I… we’re _still_   changing and adapting—almost every single day we notice something new… something we don’t know how to harness, and can barely control.

It doesn’t matter how many times they ask me their foolish questions—my answer will never change. If they choose not to believe me, the fault is theirs, not mine—I can only say one thing with certainty: if they keep up with their unceasing, irritating prodding… eventually… my self-control will snap.

And when that happens?

They will be getting a   _very_  hands on demonstration—one that will sink into their thick heads and _make_   them understand once and for all.


	13. Renunciation

 

** Renunciation **

_Prompt—Denial_

_Word Count: 408_

* * *

 

Every single morning, he made an oath to himself—he would fight against the yearnings deep inside that were growing harder to ignore. He swore he wouldn’t notice how his heart skipped a beat when she smiled—and when her hand brushed his, he would pretend not to feel the electricity that raced along his skin. No matter how often his eyes were drawn her way, he wouldn’t let them linger; he would ignore the changes that were slowly transforming her body, and the strange, fascinating excitement that stirred within him at the sight of her new curves.

Every single afternoon, he told himself he would conquer the sick, twisted thoughts that circled through his mind. He would focus on the fact that Wanda was his _sister_ , forcing himself to forget that she was the kindest, most beautiful _girl_   he’d ever seen. He would refrain from touching her—ignoring the longing in her eyes and in her voice, doing his best to hide away the fact that he felt it too.

Every single night, he prayed to God above, pleading for forgiveness over the countless times he’d wished he could be with her—begging Him not to take Wanda away as punishment for all his corrupted thoughts. He bargained, swearing that the next day he would try harder not to break his vow; he promised that he would try harder to be more standoffish—even if it meant being horribly cruel and  rude to the person he loved most in all the world. He swore he would do whatever it took to keep her at arm’s length, no matter how much it tore him up inside to hurt her in any way.

Despite all the vows and oaths and the mile high wall of denial he built around his feelings every single day, when his prayers were done, he rolled over, curling himself around her back and wrapping her in his arms, pulling her small body up against his. It was only then, when he felt the warmth of her body and smelled the tantalizing scent of her skin that he truly felt whole, and right—completely at peace.

And every single time Pietro Maximoff drifted off to sleep, his dreams were full of a happily ever after with Wanda—the one thing that he knew he could never, ever achieve…

_Even though he wanted it so much that his heart ached… every single minute of his life._


	14. An Errant Breeze

An Errant Breeze

Prompt—Wind

Word Count: 652

* * *

 

When I was a very little girl, I had an invisible friend, the way so many small children often do. I didn’t dream it up because I was lonely or sad—my brother was my best friend and closest companion, keeping me so busy that I often needed a few minutes just to sneak away and catch my breath. In those moments when I sought out a brief bit of time to myself, I would climb out on the fire escape, and lose myself in the beauty of the oldest part of Novi Grad; barely visible in the distance, peeking through the trees, I could see the ruined castle that sat on the outskirts of the city—the turrets inspired me to conjure up daydreams that I was a princess locked away in the highest tower, waiting for my brother, the brave, handsome prince to rescue me with the sweetness of his forbidden kiss. It was on one such occasion that I met my invisible friend; one moment I was lost in my fantasies about Pietro kissing me, then the next I noticed a gentle touch caressing my cheeks.

From that moment on, every day without fail, I would steal a few moments to sneak out to meet it; closing my eyes, I would tilt my head back, letting it tousle my hair and whisper softly in my ear. It never told me where it went when it left me, or where it had been—but I could always tell by the different scents it brought to me, some so strong they lingered long after it went on its way.

When we lost our home, it followed me, traveling across the city; at times it would guide us to edible food, or warn us by bringing the sound of raucous strangers as they neared. When we found the cottage, I would stand in the garden with my eyes closed—silently communing with it the way I’d always done, simply enjoying the soft murmur of its song.  Sometimes it would bring me the clean scent of rain, or the bright, crisp smell of newly mown grass in the spring; other times it teased me with the heady, heavy scent of the jasmine and honeysuckle that grew on the other side of the stone wall that protected us, reminding me of the sweet smelling perfume Mama used to dab behind her ears.

To this very day, my invisible friend still visits me, only now it is no longer a random happenstance, ruled by the weather or atmospheric things; now my invisible friend travels with the other half of my soul—stirred to life whenever my twin uses his great speed.  When I’m hanging the laundry on the line I’ve strung on the grounds of the compound, it whips around me in Pietro’s wake, drying the sheets in the blink of an eye with the strength of its breeze. It no longer brings me the aroma of sweet flowers or distant storms—but I don’t mind. Now it carries the smell I love most in all the world, teasing me and tormenting me with the scent of my brother’s skin—tickling my nose as lips brush my cheek and hands caress my body far faster than I can see.

And when the moment comes and my Pietro grows impatient, sweeping me up in his arms to speed us off to our special secret spot, my invisible friend catches the sound of my laughter as it trails behind us—perhaps whisking it away and carrying it off to share my moment of perfect happiness with some other little girl, daydreaming on a fire escape about things she thinks can never come to be.

_Listen to the wind, little one… and no matter what happens, never give up on your dreams.  Have faith and I promise you… one day every single one of them will come true._


	15. Assumptions

Assumptions

Prompt—Order

Word Count: 562

* * *

 

Living in a communal setting and being constantly surrounded by other people, it is sometimes very difficult for me to stay out of their minds. I do not do it intentionally, but when I am anxious, or overtired, my control starts to slip—then the next thing I know I am in one of my teammate’s heads. In and of itself, that is bad enough, but when you factor in that on more than one occasion, they have been thinking about _me_   at the time—and _not_   in a complimentary fashion—the situation becomes even more appalling and disconcerting.

It seems the majority of the other Avengers think I am somewhat ‘obsessive’ and ‘anal retentive’ when it comes to keeping things neat and clean.

Personally, I believe they are quite wrong about this; furthermore, I say they are blaming me in an attempt to ignore one rather obvious truth; as a rule, men are prone to being rather disgusting, slovenly creatures—perhaps because deep inside their brain, a part of them hasn’t evolved and is more in tune with the most primitive, animalistic of natures. Truthfully, their lack of basic cleanliness is a problem that has bothered me daily since we’ve made the compound our home; it is a constant, nagging torment that wears on my nerves, leaving me frazzled and at my wits end—though I’ve done my best to bite my tongue and hide my irritation.

I do not understand how anyone can live in such a manner—it is completely unacceptable. Even when Pietro and I lived in the most deplorable of conditions—in abandoned tenements that were full of rats and bugs, I did my best to make things as clean as possible. My teammates have no understanding of the concept of neatness and order—they do not understand how the messes they leave play at my mind, keeping me awake long after they are sleeping.

When they use something, they never put it back in its proper place—things are strewn about _everywhere_ , cluttering up surfaces and collecting dust. Dishes are left unwashed and dirty on the counters and in the sink—they never even _attempt_  to wash them.  Even worse,  they don’t even bother to _throw away_  empty container when they use the last of the milk or bread—apparently they think these things will somehow magically dispose of themselves, so they simply leave them wherever they happen to drop.

I can admit I have always _needed_ a certain amount of structure and organization—it was the one single solitary thing in our lives I could control when we were all alone, living on the streets. But now that I am grown, there is far more to it than just that—when I am surrounded by disorder and disarray, it almost overwhelms me. It is a disruption to the normalcy I’ve tries so hard for so many years to achieve, making it hard for me to focus—leaving me confused and adrift.

Perhaps if the other Avengers stopped to consider the messy, chaotic state my mind is always in, they might understand that my need for cleanliness has nothing at all to do with being ‘a neat freak’.

I have no choice—I have to keep things tidy and put away if I want to control the disorder inside my head… it helps me stay _sane._


	16. Distractions

Distractions

Prompt—Thanks

Word Count: 296

* * *

 

Mama always told us that we could talk to God about anything—she said that since he knows every single thought that flashes through a person’s mind, there was nothing we could ever say that would be too shocking for him to hear. I would very much like to believe that, but somehow…  I don’t think Mama knew the sort of wicked things that would eventually wind up filling my head.

I try my best not to think about such things, but when Wanda snuggles up next to me, it makes it really hard— _especially_ when I’m in the middle of saying my prayers and talking directly to God. One minute I’m thanking him for watching over us, or for providing us with the food we find and the shelter and clothes that keeps us warm—then she moves, cuddling up close to me, and my mind starts filling up with all kinds of forbidden things that would surely send us both straight to hell if they ever came to be.

I try so hard not to let those thoughts take root, but before I know it my prayers are completely forgotten and I’m imagining rolling over and taking her in my arms and kissing her the way I _want_ to—not like a brother should kiss his sister, but the way a _boy_   is supposed to kiss the _girl_   he loves more than anything in the world. I think about what it would be like to _really_  hold her—to show her how I _truly_  feel, letting my caresses and words express a completely different kind of love than the one we are supposed to share.

I only hope God stops listening to my thoughts when my prayers stop—otherwise… I think I am doomed.


	17. Pietro's Secret

Pietro’s Secret

Prompt—Look

Word Count: 421

* * *

Staring down at the book in my lap, I could not contain the exasperated sigh that had been building up inside me; there are few things on earth I hate more than studying—as far as I’m concerned, one of the greatest benefits of living on the street is not having to go to school. For Wanda, the opposite is true—she is voracious when it comes to learning; my sister will read _anything_   she can get her hands on, devouring the contents of books as if it gives her sustenance, like food. I try to keep up with the lessons she gives me, wanting to please her, but before too long the words start to jumble, getting all mixed up in my head.

I was so frustrated that I didn’t see her move—the brush of her fingertips against my cheek startled me; she sensed my exasperation and wanted to soothe me—her gentle touch strengthened my resolve to finish the chapter before closing the stupid book.

“Why don’t you take a break?” She shifted, scooting closer, leaning up against my side.

“I have to finish this part—”

“Not all at once you don’t—”

“I do.” I said firmly. Though I desperately wanted to accept her suggestion… I couldn’t—pleasing her was far more important than anything else.

“Why?”

“Because it makes you happy when I keep up with my studies,” I mumbled, scowling fiercely down at the page—my cheeks heating with embarrassment at the confession.

When she didn’t respond, I dared to raise my gaze—she was staring at me, her beautiful eyes full of so much love that my heart skipped a beat in my chest. There was something about the look on her face that made me wonder if she felt _it—_ did she have the same gnawing ache in the center of her chest that I did? Was she longing for things that were forbidden and freakish—things so sinful that just thinking about them put you in danger of losing your soul?

No… she couldn’t be—no matter how much I might wish it. My sister was far too pure and sweet for such things… an angel, straight from Heaven—and angels were incapable of wicked, evil things.

Dropping my eyes back to my book, I struggled to shove aside the yearning. No matter what… Wanda could never know the truth about how I felt—the fact I wanted her for my sweetheart was a secret I would take to my grave.


	18. Revelation

Revelation

Prompt—Look

Word Count: 223

* * *

I watch her from the corner of my eye—stealing full glimpses only when I am certain she will not see. She gazes at _him_  with such desperate yearning that it causes an ache to form, right in the center of my soul. Whispering soft, sweet endearments, she gently caress his cheeks—he reaches out, locking his fingers around hers and she giggles, wrinkling up her nose.

Jealousy flares to life inside my heart, shaming me, but I cannot help it—I am unaccustomed to sharing my sister’s attention.

She senses my emotions, looking up—flashing me a teasing smile as she scoots over, making more room. “Pietro… come—it is your turn to hold your handsome little namesake, yes?”

Sulking, I plop down beside her—unable to resist any request she demands; as I take Nathaniel into my arms, a look of longing flickers across her beautiful face.

_She is ready… she wants a child of her own._

I gaze down at the smiling, happy face of Barton’s youngest son, surprised to feel something tightening deep inside my chest; realization hits me like a punch—I want the same thing too. Glancing up at her, my mind reaches out, brushing hers as I take her hand.

_“I think we are ready, sweet sister…. It is time for a child of our own.”_

 


	19. Wanda's Game

 

Wanda’s Game

Prompt—Summer

Word Count: 321

* * *

Laying on my back, staring up at the stars is where I do my best thinking; there is just something about the feeling of the solid ground beneath me and the vast expanse of sky above that clears my mind of the useless, trivial thoughts that circle through my mind—which helps me to focus on the important things I need to figure out.

It’s almost like some strange kind of meditation—first I focus on the physical things that I can feel, like the tickle of the blades of grass that brush against my skin, or the way the breeze ruffles my hair, blowing strands across my face. Slowly, I move on to the things that my _senses_   detect—the chirp of crickets or the hum of the cicadas in the trees, and the delicate, sweet scent of lavender that fills the air that I’m drawing into my lungs.

Finally, I turn my attention to the night sky, playing a game of connect the dots with the stars above me—trying to make out familiar shapes from the spots of their bright light. The game was a distraction technique I’d devised—an attempt to battle against the frustration I felt at being constantly told we had to _wait_.

“Wandaaaa…. You are _ignoring_   me.:

I smiled at the sulky sound of my brother’s voice, turning my head his way. “Sorry… I was stargazing—”

“I am _not_   happy,” he huffed. “I think you prefer to waste our Saturday staring up at the sky than to—”

I rolled over on top of him, silencing his complaints with the press of my lips against his—he yielded instantly, his arms sliding around me, holding me close as his lips began to move with mine. With soft, tender kisses, I slowly proved there was nothing I’d rather be doing on a sticky summer night than celebrating the beauty and wonder of our love.


	20. Metamorphosis

 

Metamorphosis

Prompt—Transformation

Word Count: 750

* * *

 

_“When the changes first began, we thought that the female was the weaker of the two. Fragile and delicate, she appeared to be capable of nothing more than summoning faint wisps of red to twine around her fingers. Interesting, but not beneficial—certainly not something that could be harnessed as a weapon for our great cause._

_We forgot that in nature, the female of any species is often deadlier than the male. Wanda Maximoff reminded us of that fact, showing how wrong our assumptions were.”_

_—Excerpt from the private journal of Dr. List_

“Experiment number three hundred and twenty-two. Subject ‘T1’ is a healthy female, eighteen years old—approximate exposure this session… four hours, forty-five minutes. Dr. Henkle… you may begin.”

The voice was fuzzy and far away—as if I was still lingering in the hazy state that boarders reality and dreams. My head hurt—it felt like there was a vice around my temples; my mouth felt like cotton… I tried to swallow to ease the scratchy aching of my throat, but there was no saliva to bring me any relief.

“Water,” I croaked out—my voice was hoarse and raspy.

“When we are finished with the examination. Open your eyes and look my way—I need to check your pupils.” The woman’s voice was cold… emotionless. As far as she was concerned I was nothing more than a lab rat—not a living human being.

I tried—and failed; my eyes felt glued shut—they were dried out too. “Can’t.”

“You must cooperate if you wish to be allowed to see your brother, Fräulein—now _open_ your eyes!”

Hearing that icy, dispassionate voice mention my brother so offhandedly stirred my anger, chasing away the prolonged fogginess inside my head. It was the first acknowledgement I’d been given that Pietro was still alive—for fifty-three days I’d watched them roll body bags past my cell, terrified that one might contain my twin. For fifty-three days I’d begged to see him… begged them tell me if he lived—they ignored my pleading, remaining stone faced—as if my words fell on deaf ears.

My eyes shot open, locking on the woman—murderous thoughts circling through my head; had I not been restrained and weak, the heat of my rage was strong enough that I would have killed her where she stood.

Her gaze met mine.

She gasped, dropping the clipboard—her face going pale.

Suddenly… somehow… I was _inside_   _her mind—_ her thoughts and emotions flowed into me in a torrential rush, like a river breaking free from the restraints of a dam. All the bright hopes and dreams she had… in that moment, they were mine—under laced with the inky blackness of her darkest _fears._

_Something stirred in the center of my body—I could feel it in my solar plexus, moving slow and languorous, like a contented cat stretching in the sun; as I rifled through her head, it attached itself to the thing that I sensed would shatter her the most—expanding her natural maternal worry into crippling, chest crushing terror._

She screamed, clutching at her temples—images of her three young daughters being defiled in the worst way possible flickered through her mind. They cried out for her, completely helpless as a masked assailant systematically tortured and mutilated them, right before her eyes.

The door at the far end of the room slammed open—two guards rushed in, grabbing her arms, dragging her out of the room. The sound of her frantic, high pitched screams echoing down the corridor brought a smile to my lips for the first time since they’d torn me from my brother’s arms.

A loud burst of static sounded as the intercom clicked on, followed by Dr. List’s calm, low voice. “Miss Maximoff, please look this way—”

I turned my head, staring at the mirror like surface of the glass that separated me from the observation bay; his intake of breath was hushed, but it echoed through the chamber. “T1 is showing signs of ocular evolution—more specifically, the pigmentation of the iris have changed. Experiment three twenty-two is a success, gentlemen—the transformation has begun.”

There was a hissing sound—I coughed as the cloying sweet scent of nitrous oxide filled the room.

“But to what ends? _What did she do to Mathilde_?”

It was the last thing I heard before the blackness ate the world around me, pulling me back into the accursed womb of unconsciousness.


	21. Anticipation

** Anticipation **

**Prompt—Tremble**

**Word Count: 152**

* * *

 

He likes to tease her—it’s as simple as that. In part, it’s because he’s the oldest, and that’s what big brothers are supposed to do—but even more importantly, it is the way she _reacts_ that spurs him on.

He loves the tiny whimpers she makes, and the way her fingers tighten in his hair; he loves gazing up the length of her body and seeing the flush of arousal that colors her cheeks… seeing the hungry, pleading look that fills her eyes as his lips trail lightly along her skin.

But most of all, the thing that heats his blood and makes his cock throb is the way her body bucks and trembles when his mouth _finally_ reaches the warm wetness between her legs, his tongue darting out to taste the sweetness of her nectar.

Wanda isn’t the only one affected by his tortuously slow foreplay—he’s teasing himself too.


	22. Expectation

** Expectation **

Prompt—Sunset

Word Count: 111

* * *

 

For three years they’d waited—filled with frustration, ignoring the hungry need within that grew stronger day by day. They’d experimented, learning the best ways to achieve temporary satisfaction without crossing the final boundary—telling themselves that waiting was the _right_ , _responsible_   thing to do.

Finally, _that_   day had arrived.

Tearing his eyes away from the brilliant, blazing colors of the sunset, Pietro Maximoff met his sister’s beautiful green eyes, his fingers gently caressing her earlobe—soon, the tender skin would be adorned with one of the rings he wore in his ears.

The wait was almost over—in only a few short hours, he would claim her as his bride.

 


End file.
